


Earthquake weather

by miabicicletta



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Idiots in Love, Mary Morstan sassy best friend, Molly Hooper Science Princess, Obviously John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 04:31:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6785308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miabicicletta/pseuds/miabicicletta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sherlock…?” Mary asked, rummaging around in the box Molly had left. She held out her palm. A collection of shiny blue gems shone in white plastic. “Why’s Molly got some serious bling in a contact lens case?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Earthquake weather

**Author's Note:**

> Nonsense that grew from an idea [Amalia_Kensington](http://archiveofourown.org/users/amaliak01/pseuds/Amalia%20Kensington) shared ages ago, which I shamelessly stole. Also without shame, I blame [AsteraceaeBlue](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AsteraceaeBlue/pseuds/AsteraceaeBlue) #enabler #theworst #bywhichimeanthebest #sherlocksnogs

“You left some stuff at my place,” Molly announced as she entered the sitting room of 221B, a cardboard box in her arms. 

John smiled at her in greeting as she set her box on the coffee table. "Hey, Molly." 

"Hi!" 

Sherlock stared at his phone, saying nothing.

“Stuff?” Mary started rifling through the box.

Molly shrugged. “Just things for cases. Bits of...whatever.”

Mary held up a glittery iridescent comb. She turned her hand around, considering it back to front. “Cases. Really.”

“Or from, I suppose. Gifts. That sort of thing.”

She glanced to John, a curious expression on her face “Hashtag Baker Street problems,” Mary joked with a lift of her brow.  

Molly smiled, gestured to her collection of Sherlock's Forgotten Things. “I started cleaning to clear my head.” She shrugged, smiled breathlessly. “Got a job offer. Lots to think about. Organizing always helps. Found all this stuff and thought I’d return it.” She glanced at Sherlock. “You’re always leaving things and never coming back for it.”

“I am,” Sherlock spoke, acknowledging her for the first time, “aware.”

Molly pursed her lips, frowning. Sherlock refused to look at her. She rolled her eyes. 

“Where’d you land with the job?” John ventured, steering the conversation to something more positive.

Molly tipped her head left to right, considering. “I’m off to Paddington. Going up meet the program director in Oxford. She’s lovely. Accomplished. Pretty sure I’m going to take it.”

“She? Plus one for gender diversity,” Mary said.   

“Right? Be nice, for a change,” Molly agreed. She was quite keen on the idea of having a new lady boss, and told Mary a bit more about rest of the lead investigator, the lab facilities, the prestigious grant they’d just been awarded.

John glanced at Sherlock, curious about how he was processing new development. On the surface, he appeared no more or less scowly than usual, but he held himself very still, clutching his phone as tightly as a keeper with a football surrounded by enemy players. His jaw ticked in irritation at the exuberant description of the program Molly was interested in. 

“Well done, you,” Mary offered, squeezing her arm around their friend. “Molly Hooper, science princess.”

“Speaking of which. Sorry, gotta run. My train,” Molly explained. She glanced nervously at the time on her mobile. “Just wanted to get this stuff back to you,” she said to Sherlock.  

Sherlock said nothing.

“Off with you, then,” John said, kissing her cheek. “Best of luck.”

“Thanks, John.”

Sherlock, still, said nothing.

To her credit, Molly merely adjusted her purse and kissed Abby and Mary goodbye.

“Good luck, Molls.”

She descended the stairs. When the front door clicked shut, John turned on his best friend. “That was real nice, what you said to her just now.”

Sherlock’s expression shifted for the first time in minutes from resolute indifference to sudden offence. “What?” he protested.

“‘Good for you, Molly.' 'Very proud of you, Molly.' 'You deserve all that and much, much more, Molly.’” He rattled off any number off things Sherlock might have said. “Would it have killed you to say something supportive?”

Sherlock stood, looming over him. “I’m supposed to be pleased that my pathologist is leaving her job?”

Mary tipped her head at him, considering. She sat on the arm of the sofa, looking more closely at knickknacks Molly had returned.

John held a finger out, piqued at Sherlock’s self-centeredness. “A little acknowledgement of a friend’s success would be nice. For Christ’s sake, you of all people know how much she kills herself for her work.”

Sherlock stormed over to the window. His gaze turned on the pavement below. “One of the many reasons I’d prefer she keep doing it _here_.”

“Sherlock…?” Mary asked, rummaging around in the box Molly had left. She held out her palm. A collection of shiny blue gems shone in white plastic. “Why’s Molly got some serious bling in a contact lens case?”  

“She doesn’t like diamonds,” Sherlock said after a moment.

“What?”

“Conflict diamonds. She doesn’t like them or what they represent. She helped on a case involving trafficked gems. I encouraged the owner to sell the mines and invest in chemically grown jewels, introduced him to some business partners in the sustainability and eco-friendly, low-carbon footprint market. Gave me those from his lab as a thank you.”

Mary considered this, looking between the ethical jewels and the Consulting Man-child who was so studiously avoiding her eye.

John leaned over her shoulder. A shallow, solid-looking granite cup that looked to have been carved by hand sat atop a nearly bound pile of papers. “That a mortar and pestle? Were you grinding peppercorns?”

“Aztec stoneware,” Sherlock explained, holding a hand over his eyes. “Used to hold the heart of the worthy and victorious dead. It was…” He sighed.

John pulled a face. “Disgusting?”

“Symbolic!”

Mary gently retrieved a grotty old book. “Interesting _._ "

“Not,” Sherlock bit out. “Particularly.”  

Jewelry. Books. Weird, anatomically symbolic prezzies. John met his wife’s eye. She bit her lip, eyes wide, mouth curving with glee.

 _No way_ , he silently communicated to her.

 _Oh, yes, yes way_ , she silently replied.

“Mate,” John began, considering his words with great care. “Is it possible, and I’m not saying this to make you uncomfortable, but is it at all possible that you’ve developed feelings—”

Mary stepped in front of him and announced: “Sherlock, you have less than ten seconds to decide if you can live without her forever.”

John scoffed. Usually she was so clever, Mary. The sort of person who could easily put her finger on even the most tricksy of emotional entanglements. But what she didn’t understand was just how mercurial of temperament Sherlock Holmes, whose glacial advancement in the wider world of relationships had to be acknowledged and praised, coaxed forth with the utmost of patience and—

There was a crash as Sherlock bolted through the door, past the landing, down the stairs, and onto the pavement, disappearing after Molly.

“Too much?” Mary asked, bouncing Abby on her knee. She winced in self-doubt. “‘Live without her forever’ was a bit over the top, but he does love a bit of drama." 

“What the hell was that?” John exclaimed.

“John! He’s in love with her,” Mary summarized.  

Joh shook his head. Feelings were one thing, but Sherlock? “In love? With Molly?”  

Mary laughed. “'Obviously,'” she imitated.  

John narrowed his eyes, not entirely following. “Because he left some props and trinkets at her place?”

“Not sure I’d call the Irish Crown jewels _trinkets_.”

“What?”

She pointed to a green velvet case in a plastic evidence bag. Sherlock’s handwriting was scrawled across the label. “What it says.”

Abby reached out one chubby hand for the pretty, glittery hair clip. “Buh!”

He pushed aside the sacrificial stone heart _thing_ (ugh!), noticing a very familiar logo on the pile of pages beneath. “Hang on. That’s...” John held up the script scrawled with a diagonal watermark that read _PINEWOOD STUDIOS—DEC 2014—DO NOT REMOVE FROM PREMISES_

John looked from the jewels to the fancy (ivory and pearl?) clip to the stolen _Star Wars_ script. He pointed ineffectually to the book which he realized was, at closer glance, a very old copy of _On the Origin of the Species._ “Tell me that is not a first edition?”

Mary gingerly checked the date. “Second. Still!”

“Yeah,” John agreed. “And those?” He pointed to a set of obsidian carving tools.

“Yup.”

“And this?” What appeared to be a tiny, intricate Fabergé egg.

“Think so.”

“Not fakes,” John said through his shock. “Not props.”

“Nope,” Mary agreed. “None of them are.” She handed Abby over to him and pulled out her phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking Twitter.”

He was still dumbfounded by the realization that his friend had been leaving absurdly demonstrative presents for Molly Hooper for months, _years_ , possibly, and no one—least of all she—had noticed. “For what?”

Mary yelped in triumph. “You know how you find out if an earthquake just happened?”

 _God help you my child_ , John thought with sympathy at his daughter. _You mother is beyond weird_. “Given that Britain has roughly the geologic stability of a heap of bricks, _no Mary,_  I do not.”

She held her mobile out. “Ah. Well. There you have it.”

Below her beaming smile he read:

_London: Trending Topics_

_#sherlocksnogs (just now)_  


**Author's Note:**

> Comments always appreciated, constructive criticism welcomed :)


End file.
